Chapter V.

"Let not Ambition mock their humble toil, Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure; Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smile The low and petty knaveries of the poor.

"The titled villain and the thief of power, The greatest rogue that ever bore a name, Awaits alike the inevitable hour: The paths of wickedness but lead to shame."

Parody On Gray's Elegy.

Polycarpe's favorite dining-saloon, the gargote, or eating-house, of the Mère Crapaud, was situated in the Rue de la Huchette, one of the narrowest, darkest, and dirtiest of the old streets of Paris. It was a large, low room, opening from the street; the whole length of one side of it was taken up by four great furnaces which cooked the contents of the four great marmites, or boilers, that were constantly suspended over them. The contents of three of these marmites consisted of beef-soup, flavored with carrots, turnips, cabbage, onions, and garlic. The fourth generally contained stewed beans, a favorite accompaniment to the boiled beef. A kind of counter, on which stood baskets of cut bread and bowls of salad, separated the furnaces and marmites from the other part of the room, which was furnished with tables of six places each, and benches, all painted dark green. The place was smoky and grimy, and not rendered pleasanter by the presence of the Mère Crapaud herself, an enormously fat, blear-eyed old woman, possessed of a most abusive tongue. Indeed, she would have seemed better fitted to drive away than to attract customers. The Mère Crapaud, however, was very popular, and with good reason; for not only were her beef and soup the very best that could be bought for the money, but she also could be depended on in critical moments, when those whom she recognized as regular customers were in difficulties with the authorities.

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Fifteen or sixteen customers, of all ages and of both sexes, were seated at the tables when the two boys entered, and the Mère Crapaud, brandishing the great spoon with which she measured her soup, was busy behind the counter, assisted by two perspiring marmitons. [Footnote 117]

[Footnote 117: Scullions.]

"Bonjour, la mère," said Polycarpe, as he entered with the ease and swagger of a well-known and favored guest; "how goes it with you?"

"Bonjour, mauvais sujet," returned the hostess; "what brings you here, to-day?"

"Well, I followed my nose, good mother, which was attracted by the smell of your bouillon and beef, and brought me straight here. Permit me to present my friend M. Marcel, a young gentleman who is as yet unacquainted with the mysteries of your marmites."

"Mysteries! what do you mean by that, you little polisson? There are no mysteries in my soup-pots; good beef and good vegetables; find any better if you can."

"Why, I know I can't, Mother Crapaud, and that's why I've come."

"I don't intend running up a score for you, M. Polycarpe, I can tell you; so clear out, you and your friend, if you've nothing to pay with."

"But I have, Mother Crapaud. I'm a millionaire to-day, or very nearly so, and so I'm going to treat my friend and myself to two sous apiece of soup, and we'll see presently if you can give me change for this." And he tossed up into the air and caught again the silver piece he had extorted from poor Zozor's mistress.

The boys then seated themselves at one of the tables, and were presently served with a bowl of good bouillon and a hunk of bread.

"Now for a slice of fat beef, la mère," said Polycarpe, when the soup had disappeared; "six sous' worth will be enough for us two, and two sous each of stewed beans. What a cram! isn't it, Marcel?"

Marcel did indeed like his good hot dinner. Poor fellow! it was only when Polycarpe treated him that he knew what it was to eat his fill. No conscientious scruples prevented his full enjoyment of the present. Conscience, that mirror of the soul, which never flatters, never deceives, was veiled in him by the thick mists of ignorance, and the only kindnesses he ever received were from the hands of thieves.

They were finishing their beef and beans when two big, rough boys, dressed in dirty blue blouses and dirtier trousers of some nondescript color, rushed into the gargote and bellowed for something to eat. Throwing themselves on the bench opposite to that on which Polycarpe and Marcel were seated, they commenced a series of contortions, elbow nudges, whispers, and loud guffaws, which were only stopped by the arrival of their victuals. The elder of the two presently looked up, and, catching Polycarpe's fixed gaze, after a moment's hesitation exclaimed, "Well, yes! 'tis you, Polycarpe! I thought I remembered your face. I'm glad to meet you; you're a good one, I know."

Polycarpe was evidently much flattered by this recognition. "I thought I knew your face too, as soon as you sat down, Guguste, but you were so full of fun that I wouldn't interrupt you."

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"I'll make you laugh presently," replied Guguste, bursting out afresh, as did his companion also. "I'll tell you something that'll tickle you. Come now, stop your noise," he continued to his friend, who wriggled and choked in a convulsion of merriment, "or I'll punch you quiet. I'll tell you, Polycarpe, when I've put this plateful away. My eyes, what fun!"

So saying, he and his friend fell to again, and had soon finished both beef and beans. When the plates were empty, Guguste leaned his two elbows on the table and took breath. "That matter being happily finished," said he presently, "I'll tell you the other; it's a joke, a real good joke, in my opinion; what old Gorgibus the shoemaker calls it, is another thing. What do you think he calls it, eh! Touton? A riddle, perhaps. Ha, ha, a riddle!"

His friend Touton twisted and wriggled and giggled so heartily at this idea, that he fell off the bench in his ecstasy. "What a fellow you are for fun!" exclaimed Guguste, pulling him up; "but really I don't wonder at you, to-day! You must know, Poly, that I haven't had a shoe to my feet that was decent for an age, and you'll agree that _that_ was uncomfortable and unpleasant, not to say inconvenient, especially for a man of business like myself--ha, ha! So when I got up, this morning, I said to myself--while I shaved, you know, ha, ha, ha!--that I really must find some kind of covering for my trotters. But where? That was the question. So, to settle it, Touton and I strolled about the streets until we found ourselves pretty far in the Rue St. Antoine. What should we come upon all at once but a shoe-shop, and there in the window the very kind of shoes that suited my taste. Gorgibus was the name over the door. I shall always remember it; sha'n't you, Touton?"

"Don't speak to me, Guguste; I shall burst with laughing," replied Touton. "Poor old Gorgibus, at the sign of holy Saint Crispin! Oh! don't we owe him a candle, Guguste?"

"That we do, Touton, and you shall go to the church of St. Severin, it's close by, and pay it to the good saint!"

"Not now, Guguste. Go on with the story, do; I want to know how you got your shoes," cried Polycarpe.

"Well, then," continued the young reprobate, "Touton and I consulted together for a minute, and then in we went. 'I want a good pair of shoes, monsieur,' said I very politely. 'I'm just going as clerk to a notary, and I must be well shod. What is the price of this pair?'

"Ten francs,' said he.

"So I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cash, and counted it over with him, and I had just nine francs. 'That's all I have,' said I, putting the money back again into my pocket; 'will you give them to me for nine francs, if they fit me?'

"'Well, yes, I will, my boy,' said the old fellow good-naturedly. Upon that I sat down and put on both shoes; they went on like gloves, so comfortable, you have no idea! Then said I, 'Now, let me see if nothing hurts when I walk;' so I walked up and down the shop, old Gorgibus standing by admiring the fit, when, just as I was passing near the door, this great vaurien of a Touton gave me a punch in the nose!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" screamed Touton, unable any longer to restrain himself, "how I cut up the street when I'd done it! and Guguste cried, 'Stop, you rascal, I'll make you pay for that!' And he ran and I ran, and old Gorgibus looked after us and laughed till he cried, and he's crying still very likely!--ha, ha, ha!--and waiting for Guguste to come back and pay for the shoes! Ha, ha, ha!"

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"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the listeners.

"And then the neighbors," continued Guguste, wiping his eyes, "came to their doors, and kept calling out, 'He'll catch him, he'll catch him!' O Lord! what fun! And what a capital pair of shoes!" And the scamp put a foot on the table to show his prize, while the numerous customers around who had overheard the story applauded him with enthusiasm. Excited by the universal admiration, Guguste now invited the two boys to accompany him and his friend to the cabaret at the corner of the street to take a glass, an invitation most willingly accepted. The four unfortunate children accordingly, after paying for their dinners, adjourned to the wine-shop, where, in the society of bad men and worse women, they were initiated still deeper into the mysteries and the practice of crime.

Poor Marcel! poor little orphan!

To Be Continued.

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Treatise On Purgatory. [Footnote 118]

By Saint Catharine Of Genoa.

[Footnote 118: The month of November is usually set apart by pious Catholics for commemoration of the souls in purgatory, and for prayers and offerings in their behalf. As specially befitting the season, therefore, we republish anew the beautiful _Treatise on Purgatory_ by St. Catharine of Genoa, with the above prefatory remarks by the translator. There have been several translations of the treatise heretofore published, and it might seem a needless work to give another. But besides its appropriateness to the season, and that many will read it in the pages of _The Catholic World_ who might not elsewhere see it, the new translation we now give has special merits of its own which will justify its publication.--ED. C. W.]

When the gates of purgatory opened to Dante and his companion with awful thunderous roar, he heard mingling with the sound a chorus of voices--"We praise thee, O God!"--rising and fading away like a solemn chant and sound of the organ under the arches of some vast cathedral.

And afterward, while pursuing their journey, they felt the whole mountain of purgatory tremble. A shout arose--"Glory be to God in the Highest!"--swelled by the voice of every suffering soul in that vast realm. It was the expression of universal, unselfish joy over the deliverance of one soul from its bounds.

Such are the tones that ring all through the _Treatise on Purgatory_ by St. Catharine of Genoa--full of praise, of holy joy, and of unselfish love. It ought to be read beneath the mild eyes of the Madonna in some old church, to the sound of solemn music. If you do not meet in it the dazzling angels of the great Florentine poet, you feel their presence, and you rejoice like him in the nooks of beauty where "spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence," refreshed by the fragrant dews of God's mercy.

The patient, silent suffering of the tried souls she describes, which are living on the glimpse they had of the divine Splendor at the moment of death, is full of eloquence. They suffer intensely, but peace and joy rise above pain, as in the beautiful bay of Spezia, we are told, the sweet water rises up out of the salt and bitter sea.

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While reading this production of genius and of inspiration, we no longer shrink from that dark region, lighted up, as it is, by rays of God's wonderful goodness. With St. Catharine, we regard it as a provision of great mercy which the soul gladly avails itself of as a means of purification, which will fit it for the awful presence of him in whose sight the very stars are not pure--a presence the soul could not endure till it had purged "the world's gross darkness off." As Faber says, "The moment that in his sight it perceives its own unfitness for heaven, it wings its voluntary flight to purgatory, like a dove to her proper nest in the shades of the forest." It cries:

"Take me away, and in the lowest deep There let me be, And there in hope the lone night-watches keep, Told out for me. There, motionless and happy in my pain, Lone, not forlorn, There will I sing my sad perpetual strain, Until the morn. There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast, Which ne'er can cease To throb, and pine, and languish, till possessed Of its sole peace. There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:-- Take me away, That sooner I may rise, and go above, And see him in the truth of everlasting day." [Footnote 119]

[Footnote 119: _Dream of Gerontius_, by Father Newman.]

M. le Vicomte de Bussierre, in writing of this treatise, says: "But is the state described by the saint that of all the souls detained by divine justice in this place of expiation?" The reply to this question requires some preliminary observations.

The dogma of the church respecting purgatory is very brief. The Holy Council of Trent is satisfied with declaring that there is a purgatory, and that the souls therein detained are helped by the suffrages of the faithful.

The church does not define the nature of the sufferings endured there, but this is our idea of them:

This world is a place of probation. In it are prepared the materials for the construction of the New Jerusalem. Not only stones are wanted for its walls, but jewels for its decoration. Diamonds are not cut in the same manner as common stones. Thence we can perceive the necessity of different ways of preparing the righteous for a higher state of existence. The place each one will occupy in heaven is irrevocably fixed at the moment of death, but, before taking possession of it, he must have the highest polish of which he is susceptible, and be without any defect or stain.

Take two persons who are entering purgatory. One has passed his life in gross sensual pleasures, but absolution with the necessary dispositions has restored him to the paths of righteousness; the other has always lived in innocence and in the closest union with God, but slight imperfections deprive him for a time of the beatific vision. Shall it be said that the manner of purifying these two souls is the same, and that their purgatory only differs in point of duration? It does not seem probable. We do not use the same means for removing a stain from a garment that we should for a particle of dust on a polished mirror.

This explanation will better enable us to understand St. Catharine's treatise. Most Christians believe there are sensible pains in purgatory. It is the view commonly taken of that state by our preachers. Our saint does not contradict this opinion. She speaks of a special purification for certain souls, but without excluding any. The soul in question in her treatise is a diamond already cut with wonderful exactness, and from which the Divine Artist is removing the last stain before placing it among his choicest jewels.

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Faber says there are two views of purgatory prevailing among Christians, indicative of the peculiar tone of the mind of those who have embraced them.

One is, that it is a place of sensible torture, where the least pain is greater than all the pains of earth put together--an intolerable prison-house, full of wailing and horror; visited by angels, indeed, but only as the instruments of God's awful justice. The spirit of this view is a horror of offending Almighty God, a habitual trembling before his judgments, and a great desire for bodily austerities.

The second view does not deny any of these features, but it gives more prominence to other considerations. "The spirit of this view is love, an extreme desire that God should not be offended, and a yearning for the interests of Jesus." It is not so much a question of selfish consideration with the soul, as of God's will and glory. "Its sweet prison, its holy sepulchre, is in the adorable will of its Heavenly Father, and there it abides the term of its purification with the most perfect contentment and the most unutterable love."

In short, this second view is that of St. Catharine of Genoa, which comes home to our hearts, as we read her treatise, with joyful conviction--giving new conceptions of that holy realm of pain.

This treatise is not the production of human vanity. St. Catharine only wrote by the express wish of her spiritual director, who fathomed her genius and knew her familiarity with the secrets of the Most High. It is, in the estimation of judges of the highest authority, one of the most astonishing and admirable productions of mystical theology, says M. de Bussierre. And it has been approved of by the Holy See, and by the Sacred Congregation of Rites.

It was one of the favorite books of St. Francis de Sales, with whose spirit it is so greatly in harmony, and he calls the authoress a seraph.

And Faber styles her, "The Great Doctress of Purgatory."

St. Catharine was contemporary with Christopher Columbus, being born a few years later in the same city. And she was the grand-niece of Pope Innocent IV., who first gave, authoritatively, the name of Purgatory to the Intermediate State, and who was, like her, of the noble house of the Fieschi.

The French author so often quoted says: "There are many expressions in this work to which a forced meaning is not to be given. St. Catharine represents a soul as strictly united to God as it can be without being absorbed in the divinity. But she does not annihilate individuality. She does not teach pantheism. She only expresses the doctrine of St. Paul, '_In ipso vivimus, et movemur, et sumus:_' 'In him we live, and we move, and we are.'"

How she makes us long for that union, and welcome all that hastens it! We would join with all our earth-worn heart in that "liturgy of hallowed pain." "O world!" we cry with Faber--"O weary, clamorous, sinful world! who would not break away, if he could, like an uncaged dove, from thy perilous toils and unsafe pilgrimage, and fly with joy to the lowest place in that most pure, most safe, most holy land of suffering and of sinless love?"

(Hector Vernaccia, who first published the works of St. Catharine of Genoa, wrote the following preface to her _Treatise on Purgatory:_)

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"The soul of Catharine, still clad in the flesh, was plunged in the furnace of God's ardent love, which consumed and purified her from every imperfection, so that at the end of her life she was fitted to pass at once into the presence of God, the only object of her affection. This interior fire made her comprehend that the souls in purgatory are placed there to be purified from the rust and stain of the sins which they had not expiated on earth. Swallowed up in this divine and purging fire, she acquiesced in the will of God, rejoicing in all his love wrought in her; she clearly understood what must be the state of the souls in purgatory, and thus wrote thereof:"